


He Remembers

by totallynotfanfiction



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, M/M, Percival can't see shit, Roxy tries, Smut, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totallynotfanfiction/pseuds/totallynotfanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers the feeling all too clearly. Why, he cannot seem to recall.<br/>Edit: I fixed the issue! Sorry for the mix-up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Remembers

He remembers the feeling all too clearly. Of adrenaline rushing through his veins as he glances at the bloodied dead scattered around his feet, the hair in his eyes that's fallen from its place, the fresh wounds that sting from the rusted air. Of everything being too quiet for him all of a sudden, wishing there was something that would shatter this peaceful illusion so that he could keep going and fighting until this high wore off. He's too jumpy for this still room, and it shows in his hands and breath that shake as he walks, ready for another fight. This feeling of immense power is insane, it feels so amazing as he laughs in the night air. And then the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, gentle at first before turning rough and slamming him against the crumbling walls of a building. It knocks his breath away. He can't see clearly; his glasses were so shattered that he couldn't hear a thing coming from them, couldn't see a thing through the cracked lenses anyway. The face in front of him, he thinks it's familiar, but he cocks his gun anyway and keeps it aimed where he's guessing a kneecap should be—it'd be difficult even with his glasses in this black of a night, but he smiles anyway as his breath shakes back into him.

"Percy," is all he hears, and then lips are crashing against his with this animalistic ferocity that grabs and takes without any rhyme or reason. He lets the gun fall from his hand. It's out of bullets anyway. He can feel his suit being grabbed and pulled, his tie being loosened and his shirt's buttons popping off onto the ground without any regard whatsoever, a sharp pain in his bottom lip every time something brushes it. God, a busted lip, too. But pain feels fine right now, and he can't get enough of...

He sucks in a harsh breath and yanks at the hair as he goes to bury his face in the neck, nipping it roughly. Earl Grey with a touch of milk and honey under the heady smell of dirt and smoke. "James," he gets out before he's shoved back to the wall and suffocated with a greedy kiss; he can feel every little movement, James' shift in posture as he takes more of what he wants, the dribble that falls down the side of his chin with little notice, the sharp bite over where his lip is split—he whines at that and can taste his own blood for the second time that night. He's been beaten and shoved and shot at, but this is quite the reward for his work. He bites back through the kiss, and James gives a grunt before he's pulling back. Even without his glasses, he can tell that the adrenaline isn't just him, and he can't see the blue of James' eyes anymore. They're black. Percival grins. He presses back and gives into his instincts just like James and it feels like a surge of raw power through his veins as he's biting back into the kiss, just as rough as it is greedy. It's messy but, right now, he loves it.

And then James is pulling back for just a moment, a split second that seems far too long, before he nips at the flushed neck. It's dizzying, how in one moment it's a soft whisper of a thing and the next it's a sharp pain that has him groaning and flinching from it before he's sighing breathily. Percival's hands still can't stay in one place. They're more delicate than the ones that tore his buttons off and yanked until his collarbone was exposed, and he sighs into every soft nibble and rough bite as he pays a little more attention to finesse; it's not much, but at least the soft green buttons stay on their shirt. The suit jacket checked with brown falls off the shoulders in tatters as does the emerald tie. They don't match now, nor did they ever. And once the shirt is unbuttoned just enough, blunt fingernails press crescents into the already scratched skin, and a sigh escapes him.

The moment he gets comfortable, content with this rough contact, James is dropping down with a hand pressing against his stomach, popping the button off of his pants just like the shirt buttons, and yanking at them. Neither say anything. The finely done fingernails are caked with dirt as they grab at the thigh roughly until they leave marks. And just when it starts to hurt, a kiss soothes the pain, and so does another yank of fabric.

He remembers the noises clearly, the little hums and wet noises that are absolutely vulgar. The wet heat that makes him want to die right now because it feels so incredible after the touches of pain, how lost his mind feels in in that moment. He can't think enough to form a coherent word, and all that falls from his lips are moans and babbles that simply break the stale absence of conversation. He wants to thank James, tell him how much he loves him, tell him to use him like some dirty whore, tell him how good he's been. He can't even get out the name. It feels like it's too much and he babbles something, tightens his fists in the dark hair and just wishes his glasses hadn't been smashed to pieces. His voice is perfectly hoarse by the time he comes, his groans and whimpers like sandpaper in the air as he tries to regain it. He definitely wishes his glasses hadn't been smashed to pieces now, because James looks up to him, and he wants desperately to see the dark eyes that stare with a certain tranquillity, the swollen lips and the tongue that darts out to lick them, and the hair that's probably been mussed beyond belief.

James gets up and slings the tattered jacket over his shoulders. And Percival is still panting like a damned dog, staring at the blurred outline. James tucks him back in and straightens him up a bit with the gentlest of touches before he presses another kiss to the lips. It's softer, much softer as it moves lazily, the feeling of a thumb coming to rest at the side of his mouth and the finger under his chin familiar. He's close enough that the smile is clear enough, and the baby blue eyes are slowly becoming more evident. And then the thumb presses at Percival's busted lip, the exact place where it split, and Percival flinches back. He remembers the small laugh, laced with warmth and honesty, if a little hoarse.

He follows, if a little beaten and sore, the adrenaline starting to dissipate as old and new injuries start to ache in unison, and he can't help the little hiss that escapes him. Shit, that hurts. But James waits and puts an arm under his. Even without his glasses, he remembers the warmth of that smile, the press of lips against his temple and the soft eyes that fixate on him with vitality even at two in the morning.

He misses it deeply. He looks to Roxy who stares him down, concern dripping from her as she says something to him. He doesn't know what. So instead of asking her to repeat, he takes another drag of his cigarette and wipes the corner of his eye.


End file.
